


Closer

by BoomyMcBlasty



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Masturbation, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Spoilers for the Blue Lions route, Vaginal Sex, Wet Dream, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 16:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: “You would have lost your left hand, there.”“You forgot you already lost your right.”She tries to kick him—how unknightly—so he locks her legs between his own.She retracts her right hand and struggles to keep the wooden blade away from her neck with just one arm. Her elbow touches the ground and they reach another deadlock.“I will not yield,” he warns her.“Neither will I.”A collection of fragments about Felix's love for Ingrid, from their academy days to the war.Contains various degrees of smuttiness, a man incapable of dealing with his own emotions, and sparring. Oh, the sparring.Now with a second, shorter chapter detailing one of their trysts.





	1. Chapter 1

“Your swordplay is getting sloppy.” Felix dodges a wide slash and thrusts his training sword forward, aiming for Ingrid’s shoulder.

She manages to sidestep his attack with a grin. “That’s because I’ve been focusing on lances and pegasi.” 

Sloppier swordplay, better footwork.

“Tell the professor to squeeze in swords as well.” Felix parries another slash with his wooden weapon. She’s harder to hit and he likes challenges.

“She wants me to join the lance tournament at the end of the month.”

With a scowl, Felix retracts his sword. “Then why are you wasting your time here?”

“You’re a great sparring partner.” Ingrid takes his lowered weapon as an opening, but he’s faster. Their swords clash and he feels the impact in his fingertips.

“Resorting to cheap tactics to get a win?”

The hair that frames her face sticks to her skin. Her stamina needs to improve if she wants to be on the frontlines.

Ingrid plays innocent. “Says the one who tried to _ punch _me two minutes ago.” She steps back, sword ready in a defensive stance.

Felix points his weapon at her. “I saw an opening.”

“Do you see one now?”

He raises his sword and slices the air with all his might. Ingrid predicts the move—excellent—and grips her training weapon with both hands. She parries his move, but that was a distraction—he was using only one arm, after all. His left hand reaches for her shoulder. Once his fingers thread in her blonde hair, he grabs a fistful.

“Hey!” She tries to push his arm away, but he’s stronger. She doesn’t drop her weapon, and Felix commends her for it in his mind.

“You’re lucky the bandits of last month were dumb. Your hair will get you killed someday.”

Something flashes on her face for a split second. She stops struggling. “You know I can’t cut it.”

Felix raises his eyes to point at his own hair. “Then tie it up properly.”

Her training weapon drops to the ground. She uses two arms and all her strength, but she still can’t make him budge.

_ Sure, professor, let her play with winged ponies instead of fixing her strength issues. _

“Let. Me. Go.” Sure, Ingrid sounds threatening, but what can she actually do? She’s too prim and proper to aim where it would actually hurt him.

Felix uncurls his hand. 

She jolts away, protecting her braid from further pulling. Is she going to leave?

After a second of hesitation, she starts undoing the buttons of her jacket.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She tucks her hair inside her jacket. It puffs up around the tight collar, making her look like a stern mushroom. He can’t grab it like this, that’s for sure.

“I am not done training.” Once the last button is done, she picks her training sword from the ground. “There, happy?”

Felix points his sword at her, with a grin he can barely contain. “First to three wins.”

“Felix~!”

He groans in his soup. Sylvain never uses that tone with him unless he wants something, and Felix is just trying to eat quickly so he can start early on cleaning duty (and leave early to train some more).

Sylvain sits next to him and flashes him a conniving grin. “Tell me, how did you make her strip? I never thought of you, of all people, would manage to see her in her undershirt first.”

“What?”

“Ingrid, I mean!” He wraps an arm around Felix’s shoulder. “Rumor has it that she had a torrid sparring session with you and had to take off an item of clothing for every loss~”

“That is a lie and you fucking know it.” Felix threatens him with the spoon in his hand. “Are you the one spreading the rumor?”

“You’re no fun.” Sylvain pouts, but his eyes are still full of mischief. “But I am curious on how you managed. Spill the beans.”

“She tucked her hair in her jacket.”

Sylvain curls his nose. “That’s it?”

“Should there be more?”

“Well.” Sylvain claps his hands together. “If it were me, that little rule about stripping for every loss would have been actually enforced~”

“Do you ever think with your head instead of with your dick?”

“Now that’s something _ you _ should do more often.” Is that _ pity _in Sylvain’s eyes? “It would help you loosen up a little bit.”

Felix can’t sleep. 

Sylvain’s stupid insinuations have been bugging him for days. He does not need to loosen up. He’s at the Officer’s Academy to improve and get stronger, and improve and get stronger he will. 

He’s not tired enough to pass out like usual—he had to work on a stupid essay, for a change—so his mind starts to wander and recalls with uncanny clarity Ingrid’s little yelp at having her hair pulled. Was she blushing? She is in his memories. 

Ingrid was trying to keep the jacket closed, despite it being unbuttoned;_ how does she look without it? _The training could have made her undershirt see through… he likes the idea way too much. He pictures her training with her lance, without the jacket. Some buttons of her undershirt are undone and the fabric clings to her skin. With a sigh, Felix dips his hand under his pants, until a familiar voice snaps him out of his fantasies.

“Of course! Don’t worry, baby, you are the one for me.”

Two sets of footsteps pass in front of his door; Sylvain and his next victim. Felix punches the mattress and rolls around, ready to call it a night, until another set of footsteps angrily echoes in the hallway. A girl is crying, in the distance, and Ingrid bangs loudly on Sylvain’s door.

She still wastes her time with him.

*

“You can’t show that kind of view to a girl and expect her _ not _to repay you.”

Felix’s plans for a quick and peaceful dinner are once again shattered by a loud voice.

Dorothea looms over a squirming Ingrid—that just so happens to be sitting in front of him—with a thin wooden box in her hand and a brush in the other. 

“No need to repay me, I just did what I had to do.”

“Did you _ have _to make space for me on the saddle?”

Ingrid shoots him a ‘help me’ look, but Felix shakes his head. She’s on her own.

“Well, no, but I was on sky watch anyway—”

“See?” Dorothea places the box and the brush next to Ingrid’s empty plate. “You didn’t have to, yet you did, which counts as a favor to me—a favor I intend to repay.”

Ingrid looks at the brush, then at the other girl. “But… why repay it with make-up? There’s a cart in town that sells grilled fish, you can just buy me a small thing there…”

Dorothea chuckles. “If it’s a food date you want, fine. But I expect something special to happen right after.” How forward… Felix didn’t know that Ingrid was so popular with the ladies. 

Dorothea clears her throat and goes back on the offensive. “I want to turn _ you _into a view.” She opens the wooden box and grabs the bush. “You’d look marvelous with just a bit of rouge and some color on your eyelids…”

Ingrid flashes him another panicked look, and he simply raises an eyebrow. What does she expect him to do, sweep in and rescue her? That’s her style, not his.

“Turn to face me and close your eyes. Felix will be the judge of my masterpiece.”

“Leave me out of it.”

Dorothea shoots him a knowing glance. “If you truly wanted to leave, you would have done so already.”

Felix glares down at his steak and stabs it with his fork.

“Your green eyes are lovely, I need to choose a good color to complement them… a purple, I reckon.” Dorothea’s strokes are fluid and precise. She changes brush midway. “And now we blend…”

Felix steals the occasional glance between bites. Ingrid is still like a statue and is trying to keep a neutral face, but he can just _ feel _her discomfort by just looking at her.

“For your lips, something light and glossy… there. Ravishing.” Dorothea makes her turn. “Don’t you think, Felix?”

Ingrid opens her eyes and tries to smile. She looks… good. Different, but not necessarily in a good way. Her usual, confident smile is gone, replaced by this crooked, uncomfortable curve of her lips.

Felix stands up and cleans his mouth with a handkerchief. “It doesn’t suit her.” 

He leaves the dining hall with haste to avoid dealing with the aftermath of his words, but he can hear Dorothea’s yelling well past the gardens.

*

It’s rare to see Sylvain at the Knights' Hall. He greets Felix with a nod and aims straight for Ingrid.

“I need your help.”

Felix decapitates the hay puppet in front of him with a clean slash of his blade.

“What did you do now?”

Predictably, Ingrid drops everything she is doing to follow Sylvain out of the hall.

Felix stabs the hay puppet with his sword. 

He doesn’t understand. What’s in it for her? Does she really enjoy placating wailing village girls? Sylvain derives some sick pleasure from being a jerk to them, and he manages to get away with his behavior every single time thanks to her. 

“Bullshit,” he says at the hay head on the floor. She was busy, she was training. Sylvain could have waited for a few hours.

Ingrid comes back some time later and resumes her training like nothing happened.

Felix walks next to her and leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

“Stop it.”

Ingrid stabs the neck of the hay puppet; her blade pokes from its nape. “Stop… training?”

“Stop helping him.”

She shakes her head. “He needs me.”

“Sylvain needs to deal with the consequences of his actions.”

She looks lost for a second. She leaves the lance in the puppet and collects her hands on her chest. She doesn’t—she can’t—disagree with him. 

“Stop coddling him.”

“I am trying—”

“You become his guard dog the moment he turns to you for help.”

That seems to inject some life into her eyes. _ Now _she looks like herself, the fighter she is. She stomps in front of him and mirrors his crossed arms. “I don’t appreciate being compared to a dog.”

“You’re behaving like one. You deserve better.”

That leaves her speechless. She uncrosses her arms, leaves them awkwardly at the side of her body. Felix feels the urge to lunge forward and he does, aiming straight for the door, trying to hide the blush that creeps over his cheeks.

*

“The professor approved my request.” Ingrid raises her wooden sword against him with a smile. “It’s time to brush up on my swordplay.”

Felix collects a training weapon from the rack on the wall and weighs it in his hand. “Oh? You’re not too busy petting ponies anymore?” He assumes a defensive stance and faces her.

“They are not ponies.”

He evades a predictable slash. “And you are rusty.”

“I’m here to practice.” She fashioned her braid into a bun, similar to his own. “My stamina and footwork have improved since the last time.”

“They better have improved… that was months ago.”

She still has trouble hitting him—her offensive moves are so proper and predictable and easy to deflect—but he is having fun. She is fast. She dodges his thrusts and sidesteps his slashes with ease. Felix finds himself grinning.

“Want to fight for real?” he offers, wiping his forehead.

“Aren’t we already?”

“Everything’s allowed to make the other concede.” Not many people accept being the test subject of his improvised, no-rules brawling.

She chuckles. “Just… don’t kick me too hard.”

Felix doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he starts with a lunge, that she deflects with her wooden sword, and a low kick.

“Huh?”

She propped one angled knee against the other, to keep her balance. “I saw you last week against Miklan’s band.” He eats the hilt of her training sword against his arm, a blunt hit that will leave a bruise.

He rolls away, raises his sword once again. She saw him perform successfully the same move and recognized it. He underestimated her. “I was going easy on you.”

He needs to find an opening. He keeps his stance defensive, lets Ingrid make the first move. She is thinking the same thing. Who will be the first to break the deadlock? The adrenaline makes his chest itch.

She grips the sword with two hands and lowers herself. A slash upwards? Or sideways? He places one hand on the other endof the sword—on the battlefield he could cut himself, he needs to practice this—and holds it defensively in front of him.

The slash is upwards, and her wooden sword is a bit too close to his body for Felix’s liking. His sword slides down Ingrid’s own weapon and slams against her fingers.

“Dead.”

“You wish.” She winces in pain, but doesn’t yelp anymore. She’s getting used to the battlefield. Ingrid steps back and changes grip, wields the training sword with her left hand. A feint masks a side slash; his thigh eats it and he’ll have a bruise tomorrow. Getting hit allows him to land a sucker punch on her arm.

She’s not used to wielding a sword with her non-dominant hand; he manages to disarm her after a few tries. She doesn’t yield.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns her, because while he’s having fun, he doesn’t want her to end in the infirmary.

“Bring it.”

She can dodge all she wants, he’s not going to let her near the weapons rack. He sees her run for it while he’s recovering from an unsuccessful thrust so he lunges forward and they fall on the ground.

Ingrid groans in pain—Felix wants to. He fell on his knee and feels the hurt crawl in his whole calf.

“Dead.”

Under him, Ingrid grins, determined and still fighting and beautiful. “I do not yield.”

He grabs the sword he abandoned on the ground, ready to point it at her neck. She pushes one hand against the hilt, one hand against his own, making him curl his fingers around the weapon.

“You would have lost your left hand, there.”

“You forgot you already lost your right.”

She tries to kick him—how _ unknightly— _so he locks her legs between his own.

She retracts her right hand and struggles to keep the wooden blade away from her neck with just one arm. Her elbow touches the ground and they reach another deadlock.

“I will not yield,” he warns her.

“Neither will I.”

Instead of pushing against her arm, he forces the sword above her head; her left arm alone is not strong enough and soon he has her left wrist pinned above her head.

Her eyelashes tickle his face. Felix freezes in place. When did they get so close?

He’s straddling Ingrid, pinning her down. Her chest rises and falls against his own.

“It’s a tie.” He frees his arm and jumps up quickly.

She is blushing—as is he, damned be his traitorous cheeks. He offers her his hand and she stands up as well. She brushes the dirt from her clothes; he does the same, without facing her.

That night he relives their fight, palming himself under the blankets.

In the privacy of his own fantasies, he does not freeze up. He rubs his nose against her cheek, inhales her scent as she holds her breath. With her ear so close, it’s a waste not to whisper something.

Felix frowns in the dark. What should he whisper?

“That was hot.” She squirms under him, not to get away, but out of shame. “I want to do it again.”

He can almost feel her chest pressing against his own, can feel her warm body under his own.

*

Seteth _ had _to make the Ball mandatory. 

Felix wanted to avoid the occasion like the plague—instead, he’s sipping his fourth glass of white wine and listening to Sylvain ramble about horses being less temperamental than wyverns. “I’m just afraid they’ll stab me with their horns, you know?”

Lorenz is seated at their table as well, just so Seteth can keep an eye on the two skirt chasers of the year and make sure they don’t harass the girls. Being bunched up with them is almost offensive—but Sylvain _ is _ his friend and Lorenz finally decided to stop trying to have a conversation with him, so Felix can tolerate the situation. The wine makes him mellow.

“That’s why you wear armor up there, so they can’t stab you.”

Sylvain’s inebriated self toasts to that.

Flayn waves at their table from the dance floor and he can just _ feel _Seteth’s glare pierce his neck. She’s dancing with the taller Mercedes while Annette teaches Ingrid how to lead; they carved out a corner for themselves, away from the rest of the nobles flaunting moves and flourishes.

Their corner is now being approached by Claude, who’s sporting a shit-eating grin and a tray with six glasses of wine on it.

Seteth marches towards the Golden Deer leader and looks ready to _ obliterate _him.

“Finally.” Sylvain chugs down his glass. “I’m leaving. Felix, please, don’t snitch on me.”

“He has eyes. He can see you missing from the naughty corner.”

Lorenz stands up as well and produces a curt flourish. “If you’ll excuse me, I am wanted somewhere.”

Felix looks at his glass, half empty. He feels a pleasant buzz in his head. He hopes he won’t come to regret his drinking.

“Felix! There you are.”

He will definitely regret it. Ingrid walks up to him with a sweet smile.

He greets her with a nod. “I thought you didn’t like dancing.”

Her lips shine in the candle light. Her eyes look different, prettier, but he can’t put a finger on it. Her skirt is also shorter… “It’s not bad with the right people, even though my feet hurt… Annette stepped on them so many times.”

Felix chuckles at the notion.

“Are you… drunk?”

“Of course I’m not. Slightly tipsy, hardly a crime.”

Ingrid looks around. “Where is…” The question dies on her lips. She purses them before shaking her head. “Nevermind.”

“Mph. A small improvement.” _ Where is Sylvain? _ is what she wants to ask. At least she has the decency not to. Unfortunately, he finds relevance in the question. If Sylvain’s in the dorms and brought company, Felix won’t be able to sleep. Fortunately, he never lasts very long. Quantity over quality.

Felix chuckles again.

“How much did you drink again?”

He finishes his wine. “Four glasses.” He can stand up without any issues. “I spaced them out and had some snacks.”

Her eyes glitter at the mention of food. “Do they still have the roasted turnips?”

“They stopped bringing in snacks one hour ago.” 

The news makes her pout. She looks at the bottle on the table; there’s some wine left. “I probably shouldn’t drink more. I had two glasses and a half.” She giggles. “I shared one with Flayn.”

Felix throws her an alarmed look. “Do you have a death wish?”

“I have a _ bed _wish. I’m so tired…”

“Let’s leave.”

They leave through the gated gardens and are forced to take the long route.

“Hold on.” Ingrid stops to take off her boots. Once they’re off, she stretches her legs. “Much better.” She’s still wearing the blue tights of her uniform.

“Your tights… you should take them off as well.” Her face flares up. “Or do you want to make holes in them?”

Most of the girls go around with their bare legs, anyway; it’s nothing extraordinary.

_ She doesn’t. _

“Turn around.”

He complies and hears the rustling of clothes. Why is he holding his breath?

“Done.” Ingrid hides the blue tights in a boot and starts walking with them in hand. Felix follows her with his eyes cast downwards. Her legs are shapely, with nice muscle definition. He almost wants to…

He shakes away the thought. He would like to run his hands on them.

Since her skirt is shorter than usual, he can see a thin scar on the side of her thigh.

“Oh!” She twirls around, full of mischief. “Did the winner of the White Heron Cup dance with anybody?”

What a way to ruin his mood. “He didn’t,” he answers, flatly. The professor made him join the competition as a joke. It’s a travesty he won.

“That’s too bad.” She’s walking backwards and he can see the scar creep up her thigh. Where does it end?

“Why, did you want to dance with me?”

They’re at the Officer’s Academy now. The courtyard is still well lit, even at night.

“It would hurt your pride.”

He looks around. “Nobody’s here.”

His answer seems to surprise her. She leaves her boots by a pillar and walks closer to him, barefoot in the grass.

“Didn’t Lord Rodrigue make you take dancing lessons?”

He wraps one arm around her back and holds her right hand.

“He did, and I hated every second of it.” She never had to take dancing lessons. Never had to charm potential partners; after all, she was… “Put your left arm over mine.” She places her left hand over his elbow, looking unsure.

“What do I need to do?”

He presses her closer. “Follow my lead.”

“That’s what Mercie said as well, and I ended up stepping on her three times.”

“Mercedes makes for a terrible lead.” Felix squares her up and squeezes her hand. She has a scar there as well. “I’m sure you’ll be a terrible follow.”

Ingrid pouts. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Follow my steps. When I lead you right, you go right. When I dip you, you relax.”

“You’re going to _ dip _me?!”

Felix doesn’t sing, but he needs to hum a tune, an old waltz his mother used to request all the time. They can’t dance to silence.

Pretty shadows dance on Ingrid’s face as they move. She is a terrible follow, as expected. She doesn’t trust him. Her ear, once again, is close enough for a whisper. The wine gives him the courage to follow through his thoughts. “Ready for the dip?”

That makes her cling to him even more. He chuckles. “Just kidding.”

Her smile makes her usual stern face less severe.

“Knowing you—”

He makes her dip. Her hair touches the grass before his arm pulls her back on her feet; her body presses flush against his and he can count her eyelashes.

Felix doesn’t do love or romance, but neither does she.

Her pretty green eyes are wide open, her mouth parted from the surprise.

_ It’s the wine. _

They’re both holding their breaths when they kiss. Ingrid squeezes her eyes shut and her fingers dig into his shoulders. They’re both clumsy, don’t quite know what to do. Brushing their lips together works, makes his heart roar. 

She doesn’t allow him to stop. A second kiss follows, still gentle. Felix brushes his nose against her cheek and kisses her again; Ingrid pulls him closer.

When she remembers to breathe, her eyes dart around and she shatters the moment. “This is… inappropriate.”

“Doesn’t look like you have a problem with it.”

She steps away and collects her boots from the ground with shaky hands. He lets her.

The walk back to the dorms is silent. 

On the stairs, Felix’s arm brushes against hers; she doesn’t pull away.

“Good night.” Ingrid has the first room on the second floor, and she hides in it as soon as they reach it.

At least she has the decency to not mention Glenn.

Glenn died before he could kiss his fiancée.

Felix had asked him if they had already kissed, years ago, when he was still a child. Glenn had shaken his head and told him that Ingrid wasn’t bleeding yet. Thirteen years old Felix was confused by the answer.

Glenn died at fifteen. Felix is two years older, Ingrid is as well.

Glenn never got to see her body fill up. He died before she could be considered a woman. He never got to kiss her.

Felix’s pillow is wet. He’s never drinking wine ever again.

*

Neither mentions the accident; both pretend that it never happened, that they never danced together, that they never kissed. They have known each other for so long that it’s easy to fall back on the routine they share.

He dreams of her, sometimes, and has to change sleepwear when that happens.

Ingrid is put in charge of a small battalion of pegasus knights and she’s over the moon about it. Felix refuses to be responsible for other people, no matter how vexing the professor gets about it.

Leading the battalion is making Ingrid slacking. Instead of training, she’s spending hours in the library to learn how to best command them—a waste of time.

Felix tells her as much when he finds her—again—absorbed in a stupid strategy book.

“You’re not meant to be a knight.” She is a terrible follow. No matter how much she romanticizes chivalry, she is not meant for that. She is a lead, yet she’s not behaving like one. His next words are full of resentment. “Go find a husband.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” 

“I know you hate the ideals of chivalry and pride. So much so, you prefer to escape your duty as your family's heir.” She takes a deep breath and her body puffs up like that of a cat trying to appear intimidating. “You have no right to criticize me for my ideals.” 

“Perhaps not. At least I know not to heedlessly obey orders. I know not to romanticize blind obedience.” She’s going to get her knights killed if she keeps her nonsense up. “My brother taught me to think for myself.” It’s a low blow and Felix knows it, but they did decide to fight for real, instead of sparring. 

“Don't you dare bring Glenn into this…” He just offered her an opening on a silver platter, she refuses to take it.

“You're right. Forget it.”

He is about to leave when something in him _ snaps _. No, he can’t forget it. Not after weeks of pretending, he can’t. Not after hearing the glee in her voice as she commands the knights, not after seeing her take a blow for one of them.

It takes him one step to be next to her, but instead of feeling her lips against his, he meets her fingers. She is covering his mouth with her hand; her stern frown painted on her face is harsher than usual.

“Do you think I have no self-respect?”

She pushes his face away, still holding that stupid book under her arm, and leaves the library.

*

“Felix, I’m serious, he’s trying to make her change Houses.”

As usual, his plans for a quick and painless dinner are thwarted by Sylvain.

Felix throws a glance at the table on his right. Ingrid is scolding Claude about something. For some unholy reason, he is talking back—the fact is making her even more animated than usual.

Two bloody idiots, two peas in a pod. Felix wants to stab his dinner, but he’s having soup again.

“He’s just a masochist getting his fix. Let him be.”

Sylvain looks scandalized. “Felix, such language… from you!”

He shrugs.

“Look, I know that you two are going through a rough patch, but I’m serious. He wants her to join the Golden Deers.”

“She won’t. She’s more stubborn than a goat.”

“I’ve seen her hang out with that little dude with the glasses, Ignatz, and gush about knights.” 

Felix curls his nose.

“And I saw her train with the huge one, Raphael. I was fearing for her life.”

“If you’re so concerned, do something about it. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sylvain smiles, which is never a good sign. “I already did. Don’t worry, they are not a threat. Claude, on the other hand…”

Felix looks at him, deadpan.

“He’s smart. He sees right through me.”

“Then act unpredictably.” With that piece of advice, Felix leaves the table and makes a point to avoid the one on his right.

Sylvain never manages to put his plan into action. 

*

Garreg Mach falls and they travel back to their territories, waiting for the Empire to strike.

His old man leaves for Fhirdiad as soon as he learns that the boar is to be executed. He comes back with Areadbhar and a gaping wound on his leg.

Once Cornelia establishes the Faerghus Dukedom in the west, House Fraldarius takes command of the resistance.

Sylvain joins them first, with a small group of seasoned Gautier knights, used to skirmish at the border.

Ingrid joins them some weeks later, accompanied by a handful of pegasus knights from House Galatea.

“Does your father know you’re here?” Felix’s old man welcomes her and Lúin with open arms, but still has to pretend to care for formalities.

“I left him a note. I’m not fighting against the Empire, I’m… fighting for the Kingdom.”

Felix is there when she joins; she’s still in her Academy uniform, with her hazard of a braid.

“Semantics,” he growls. They’re not going to fight against bandits. They are going to fight against soldiers born in the wrong territory. They are at war.

Both Ingrid and the old man ignore him.

“We have three… four Relics on our side. The Dukedom only has Crusher.”

“Nobody in House Dominic can use it except for Annette.” Ingrid smiles. “And she won’t wield it against us.”

“I regret to inform you that House Dominic and House Gaspard are both part of the Dukedom.” Felix laces his words with as much dismissal as possible.

Ingrid takes a letter out of her breast pocket and lays it on the table in front of the old man, locking eyes with Felix. “Annette of House Dominic and Ashe of House Gaspard are both in Fhirdiad. Mercedes is with them as well.”

Felix feels his fingertips tingle. Defiant. Unyielding. _ Right _. He wants to kiss her again.

She cuts her hair the day after. The barber of House Fraldarius tries to talk her out of it, but she of all people knows how to be insistent.

Felix sees a sad mountain of blonde hair under her chair, but Ingrid herself doesn’t look sad.

“Keep the rest long.”

She almost turns to face him, but the barber keeps her head in place.

“It’ll get in the way.”

“Not if you braid it.”

The barber’s face lights up. “That’s a wonderful idea! Perhaps we can keep most of it.”

Felix leans on the doorframe. She is still in her uniform and brought no troops. Is House Galatea struggling that much?

Once the barber is finished, Ingrid’s long hair is plaited neatly behind her head. The hair on the back of her head, under the braid, is considerably shorter; was she going for a man’s cut?

“Not bad.”

His compliment makes her face light up. She thanks the barber profusely.

Felix is waiting for her in the hallway. “Do you know where the tailor is?” 

She shakes her head.

“Follow me.” She can’t fight in her uniform, Faerghus is too cold for that flimsy jacket and a skirt.

When Sylvains sees her, his eyes blow out of his orbits.

“Ingrid?” He hurries to her side and inspects her face. He twirls his finger and she performs a small pirouette for him.

“What do you think?”

“It suits you perfectly. It almost looks _ too _good, you know? Makes you look like a doll.”

Sylvain’s right. Felix, who has mastered the art of appearing unbothered, doesn’t comment on it.

It takes weeks for Ingrid’s clothes to be ready. Once she has the protective gear she needs, she joins them on the battlefield.

The old man and her father stay in touch, but House Galatea can’t spare any men. Even their knights are working the fields, trying to coax some crops out of the poor soil.

After two years, Ingrid decides to send her knights back to her father. She takes command of a small battalion of wyvern riders from House Fraldarius.

Felix strides across the camp, furious.

The Galatea knights will leave in the morning. Sylvain, who has been behaving decently up until that point, has decided that it's the perfect opportunity for some fun with no strings attached.

Some of the soldiers have complained about the noise to his old man, too busy dealing with paperwork to scold the heir to House Gautier, a task that falls on him.

Sylvain’s tent is at the edge of the camp, close to the river and the makeshift stables. He can barely see the tent, but he can _ hear _him and his companion for the night. 

Felix feels like murder.

Most of the tents are dark—they suck up to Sylvain so much they pretend to sleep, instead of making him stop. One tent is still lit by candle light.

Felix stops in his tracks when the gurgles of the river cover the moans. After a couple of seconds, he can’t hear them anymore. _ Quantity over quality. _

He ducks inside the lit tent.

“Felix?”

Ingrid is sitting on her sleeping mat in a thin undershirt and pants, and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Those are _ his _old clothes. He can't believe Count Galatea can’t spare some gold to get her some sleepwear.

Felix closes the tent behind his back. “I know I told you to let him deal with the consequences of his actions, but he’s keeping the whole camp awake.” He has the decency to whisper.

Ingrid sighs. “I’m sorry.” She collects her hands on her lap. “I told that knight exactly what kind of person he is… I gave her his usual script, the one he has been using for years.”

Felix cocks an eyebrow.

Ingrid mirrors his expression. “She told me she didn’t mind.”

“What he’s doing might not be wrong like his usual, but is very loud.”

She looks the other way. “Yes.”

That’s right. Her room at the Academy was right in front of the stairs, while Sylvain had the corner. She never heard him.

Felix’s eyes fall on the book on the mat. It’s not that crappy collection of essays, fortunately, just one of her glorified fairytales. He picks it up to look at the cover and recognizes it. “Ashe recommended this one to me.”

Her eyes light up. “Really? Did you read it?”

“I don’t see why I should.”

Her whispers grows excited. “The main character reminds me a bit of you.”

“Oh?”

“He’s strong and passionate, yet he keeps the cool and detached exterior of a lone wolf.”

Felix cocks an eyebrow. “I’m strong and passionate _ and _ cool _ and _ detached _ and _a lone wolf?” That seems like an unnecessarily long string of adjectives.

She smirks. “Am I wrong?”

Passionate, huh. He hasn’t felt like that in a while—not while he’s sleeping surrounded by other men in a war camp. He pinches the wick of the candle and sudden darkness envelops them. The burnt smell of the candle makes his nose itch.

It’s easier when she can't see his face. It’s easier to crawl at her side, guided by her breathing. It’s easy to push her shoulders down, have her lie on the sleeping mat. He feels her legs around his waist—she’s locking him in.

“Are you not going to push me away?” he whispers in the dark.

“Not tonight.”

Their kiss is different from their first, tipsy one. It’s still clumsy, but instead of acting proper and demure, Ingrid runs her hands on his back, explores his shoulders and collarbone. Propping himself on one arm, Felix decides to learn her body as well. He slides a hand under her undershirt and she tightens the grip of her legs. She likes it.

He parts his lips and deepens the kiss. _ She likes it _. Feverishly, he grabs her breasts. They fit in his palm perfectly. Soft and—he lingers in the crane of her neck—round—he rubs his face against them.

A moan dies in Ingrid’s throat. The sound fuels his fervor and makes him palm himself. Felix can’t believe it. He bites one breast softly over the undershirt, traces the curve of it with his lips until he finds—

A deep groan, from a distance, makes him freeze in place. The groan is followed by moans.

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

*

His Aegis Shield, Ingrid’s Lúin and Sylvain’s Lance of Ruin become feared by the Dukedom.

They can’t steal more than a couple of moments together in five years.

Ingrid’s arms grow muscular and scarred and beautiful; Felix is glad she’s wearing tights—he has seen her bare legs and they drive him crazy.

They leave for Garreg Mach through Charon territory. His old man lets them go reluctantly, and promises not to tell anything to Count Galatea.

When they find the boar, he’s is in a pitiful state, but he’s alive, in his own twisted way. The professor is alive as well, and he decides to fight under her command, as do all the others.

*

“Come back here!”

Felix is about to close the gates to the training grounds when Sylvain hides behind him. “Felix, please, you _ have _to help me.”

Ingrid, in her teal shirt and white pants, barefoot, is running towards them with a mean frown.

“What have you done this time?”

“He was peeping!” Ingrid’s hair and shirts are damp. Was she in the sauna? Felix notices how the shirt sticks to her body and he doesn’t like Sylvain seeing that.

“I am innocent, I swear!”

Sylvain happens to be taller than Felix, so all Ingrid has to do to face him is look up. Felix is not amused.

“I was just passing by and I dropped a coin in front of the window.” Sylvain’s excuse is really weak.

“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

“Felix, I thought you had my back!”

Ingrid tries to circle them, but Sylvain’s legs are longer and he darts towards the dormitories. “Gotta go, bye!”

“Come back here!” she barks. After a sigh, she rubs her arms with her hands. She doesn’t chase him anymore. She doesn’t waste her time.

“Your shirt is damp and see through.”

She blinks two times and looks horrified at her chest. Her cheeks flare up and she tries to conceal the perky nubs on her breasts.

Felix takes off his cape and offers it to her without a word.

“Thank you.” She wraps herself in it and rubs her nose on the fur. It’s too big for her, but it makes her look cozy and warm. Almost cute. “I’ll bring it back to you tonight.”

After a moment of hesitation, she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before jogging back to the sauna.

Felix touches his face. It feels very hot.

When Ingrid comes to his room to give him back the cape, he’s tempted to let her come in. Sylvain opens his door and starts to chat with them about serious business, for once, and Felix is secretly glad.

*

His old man—the senile fool—is no more. The boar claimed yet another victim on his way to the throne.

Ingrid and Sylvain coddle him like a child, sit next to him whenever they can, but they know him well enough to stay silent. Felix appreciates their closeness.

His uncle reaches out to him. His letter has the Fraldarius Crest on the wax seal—he means official business. Felix trashes the letter without even opening it.

Three more follow, until he finally decides to open it and answer.

The title of Duke Fraldarius weights on his shoulders like a curse, but he will see the war through, and he will make sure that the boar’s pile of corpses won’t include any more known faces.

*

They’re deep in Dominic territory to retrieve Crusher. Annette and Gilbert—another senile old fool—are on the other side of town, surrounded. The place is crawling with soldiers from the Dukedom, still blissfully unaware of their plans to invade Fhirdiad.

Felix can’t let Annette and her old man die. He slices his way across town, cutting down the stragglers left by the wyvern riders.

The Aegis Shield glows in the shadow of a building, looking alive, absorbing the damage that would kill him. He is fine. He charges forward, alone, Armorslayer in hand, to deal with one of the generals.

He can’t let them die.

Sudden goosebumps make him stop in his tracks. The air tingles with magic.

“Get away from there!” Something big and wet, the nozzle of a pegasus, bumps against his back. The force makes him roll on the ground; he looks up to see Ingrid on top of her horned steed, enveloped by blue jolts that char the ground. Her mouth is open in a silent scream.

Her body falls slack for a second, but she regains her balance. She holds onto the reins, hiding her face in the pegasus’ hair. 

She took a Bolting for him and survived it.

He takes on her cleaning duties because the Bolting caused internal damage. Did she _ really _heal completely? He can’t verify her claim, therefore he doesn’t trust it.

They argue about it—of course they do.

He doesn’t like to admit it, but he can be honest with himself; they are quite alike when it matters. They are both leads. She still likes silly legends and romanticizes knighthood, but maybe… just maybe…

“You said you healed weeks ago. How come you’re visiting the infirmary?”

Felix is waiting outside the main hallway of the second floor with his arms crossed and a frown to rival Ingrid’s.

Said Ingrid closes the door to the infirmary behind her back. “Professor Manuela told me to come for a check-up.”

“And?”

“Everything’s fine.”

Felix looks into her eyes, tries to find deception. “Really?”

“It’s unlike you to show so much worry.”

“I’ll shut up, then.”

He’s about to leave when she places a hand on his arm and begs him to stay with her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Ingrid knows he’s not good with words. She has learned that he prefers to use his mouth doing something else, with her. She gets so close he can count her eyelashes and looks at him with her dolly green eyes.

“It’s unlike you to be so meek,” he mocks her.

Defiance glows in her eyes and she steals a kiss, steals his breath away.

Behind the infirmary door, Manuela clears her throat.

Ingrid steps away from him, steals another kiss, and then leaves for the library.

*

“Let’s consider a hypothetical situation.”

Felix draws his bow. His arrow misses the bullseye, and he groans in frustration.

“I might fancy someone.”

Sylvain is leisurely sitting on the ground with a half read magic tome in his lap.

“Do you think that someone would try to injure me, were I to kiss her?”

His second try is closer to the bullseye, but still not good enough. “Depends on who that someone is.”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Sylvain tries to half-assedly summon a Ragnarok in his hand. A vortex of flames dances in the air before extinguishing itself. “It’s Ingrid, duh.”

...Sylvain doesn’t know. They have managed to keep their sporadic kisses a secret. The fact makes the corner of his lips go up.

“You hate her that much?”

“The opposite, in fact. That’s why I’d like her to reject me.”

Felix lowers his bow and looks at him, really looks at him, to check if he has gone mad.

“I would hate to break her heart… but Felix, that is what I do. That’s my specialty. The idea of doing it to her terrifies me.”

“You know, being a jerk to women is something you do, not something you _ have _to do.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Even with her, even in the cathedral… I had these thoughts. I was struggling with what to say, but if I wanted to hurt her, I knew just the words.”

“Seek help.”

“Why do you think I’m talking to you?”

Felix crouches next to him. “Look, I’m honored, but I don’t know what the fuck you should do to turn normal. Go to someone that knows, like Seteth.”

Sylvain groans. “Anybody but him.”

Felix pats his shoulder and grabs his bow from the ground. He has done what he could.

“Do you think I should tell her how I feel?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Do you think she’ll accept my feelings?”

“You fucked one of her knights next to her tent the day before her battalion was supposed to leave.”

Sylvain bites his lip. “...that’s bad. Is that why you were the one that came to interrupt me?”

“You were keeping up the entire camp.”

Sylvain attempts another Ragnarok and this time the flames are intense enough that Felix can feel their heat.

“I would hate for her to die without knowing the joys of love.”

How poetic, and how very Sylvain to worry about love and romance while they’re at war.

“The same goes for you. You deserve to know how the body of a woman feels before we march on Enbarr.”

Felix ignores him because he doesn’t know what to say. He takes aim, focuses on his breath and heartbeat. His hands need to be steady.

“You saw just how much His Majesty changed after a night with the professor.”

He misses the target completely; the arrow bounces against the wall and falls on the ground, looking sad.

He towers over Sylvain, crushing the bow with his hand. “It took my father _ dying _for the boar to regain the sliver of humanity he had left.”

Sylvain open and closes his mouth like a dumb fish, out of excuses.

*

Sylvain’s words haunt his nights. He will see Enbarr, and will lay siege to the Imperial Palace, and face Edelgard herself. So will Ingrid. She’s strong and he respects that. She’s been too busy to spar with him, lately, swamped with marching routes to plan and outposts to patrol, but he reckons she could beat him… maybe.

They are going to win the war, yet Sylvain’s stupid concerns make him doubt. Anything could happen. What if… his rational self can’t even come up with scenarios in which they are bested. _ They won’t be. _ And yet…

He pushes the sheets away and sits on his bed. He could use a glass of wine, some liquid courage; he’s about to do something dumb, something he might regret. 

In the dark, he reaches for his desk and grabs an unlit candle. His steps are quiet as he leaves his room, lights the candle in the hallway and makes his way for the first room in the dorms, Ingrid’s room.

Once he’s in front of him, something fierce claws at his heart. If he knocks… the others will know. He might hate chivalry, but he treasures his pride.

A small sound comes from her room. The door opens, and a very sleepy Ingrid covers her eyes with her arm.

“...Felix? What are you doing here?”

“I’m coming in.”

She hides under the bedsheets, leaving him in the middle of the room. That is not how he imagined his visit to go. He closes the door behind his back.

“Blow the candle off and come here…” Her voice is husky with sleep. She sounds… cute. He does as suggested and pinches the wick to extinguish the flame. He slides under the blankets; his hand touches her shoulder—she’s warm like a furnace.

“Cold,” she whines, making him turn away from her.

She presses her body against his back and Felix feels overwhelmed for a second, washed over by affection. One of her arms rest on his waist, her knees are under his own. He is… being cuddled.

That is not what Sylvain meant with ‘knowing the body of a woman’, but he doesn’t even mind. He allows himself to let go, relaxes in her embrace. He has never felt such comfort before.

Something pokes his side.

_ Go away. _

Again, something is jabbed against his ribs.

_ Stop. _

“Wake up.”

He opens his eyes and breathes in Ingrid’s scent. It smells good, faintly sweet. He feels so warm… then she pokes him again.

“What are you doing?” he protests, pressing his body against her back. They switched in their sleep.

“Giving you a taste of your own medicine.” 

He realizes that his morning erection is pressing against something warm and plush—that something is her ass—and that he poked her awake. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. She looks at him over her shoulder with half lidded eyes. Sleepy or sultry? They’re caught in another deadlock.

He breaks it this time. 

He leaves the warmth of the blankets to go back to his room. “I’ll see you in the dining hall.”

“Wait!” Her hand darts out, grabs his wrist. “You’ll get a cold like that.”

It’s unlike her to dance around the subject. When she sees that he’s not budging, she pulls his wrist. He allows her to drag him back under the blankets. Their knees are touching. Hesitantly, she rests her head against his chest, asking for permission or giving it, both work for him.

His hands wander over her arms, admire the lean muscles. Felix has seen her do impressive work with her arms, and they’re littered by scars, participation prizes. She discards her undershirt and looks at him with glossy eyes. Felix’s mouth waters at the expanse of bare skin, marvels at all the scars he can see. His fingers dance on her waist, trace the curve of her hip and back, before grabbing and admiring the firmness. Both his hands end up on her breasts, and this time he can touch her freely. He feels almost dizzy. His nose brushes against her collarbone, dips lower until his mouth can feel a scar on her chest. He follows it before rubbing his face against her breasts—a sound escapes from her throat.

His erection perks up. _ More _.

Felix rubs his face against that softness, nibbles at it with his teeth and another moan leaves her lips. She grabs his hair and pulls him upward for a kiss.That’s how he likes her—a warrior, getting what she wants.

Her hands dive under his undershirt, touch his back greedily until they reach his ass and squeeze.

“Really?”

Ingrid chuckles, “Feels nice.”

He does the same and fuck, she’s right, it does feel nice—he has more firm flesh to grab as well. He undoes her cotton pants and she kicks them away.

At last, he can touch her legs, he can feel her muscles tense under his fingertips. He is not a religious man, but her legs are divine. He peppers her thighs with kisses and that makes her squirm. He sinks his face in her skin, nibbles at her soft inner thigh.

Ingrid covers a moan with her mouth. She spreads her legs and raises her hips, asking for some friction. Felix knows what to do, kinda. He spreads her slick folds with his tongue, experimentally. She tastes good, a bit salty. He laps at her wetness, eager for more.

His tongue wanders until she chokes back a moan. There it is. He focuses on the nub that makes her go crazy, lavishes it with eagerness. He never imagined she could look so ravishing, with her legs spread like that; he never thought she could taste so addicting. He places one hand on her thigh to feel the muscles twitch at his every movement, and wraps the other around his erection.

His spend soils his pants too quickly for his taste. His body jerks on its own, and he has an idea. He places his other hand next to her mouth and she gives it a lick.

“Bitter!”

He tries it too. “Fucking disgusting.”

“Goddess, do I taste the same?” Ingrid tries to push his head away with her leg, but he doesn’t let her. He is a man on a mission, and he dives back in.

Ingrid slides out of bed, still naked. She grabs some clothes from the wardrobe and dresses herself quickly. “Tomorrow we’ll march on Enbarr.”

“Yes.” Felix looks at her nimble fingers buttoning up her teal shirt, covering up one of her many scars.

“What will you do once the Empire falls?” She’s confident in their chances to win. He is too. She undoes her messy braid and takes a brush from her desk.

“I will inherit the title of Duke Fraldarius.”

She acknowledges him with a hum. 

A question weighs heavily in the air. What about her? 

“What about you?”

She places the brush back on the desk. The light gleams on the long hair she usually hides in a braid. “I will follow my heart.”

*

Ingrid relinquishes her claim to House Galatea and decides to serve House Blaiddyd as a knight. Felix watches the ceremony from King Dimitri’s right.

Dimitri taps the flat side of his ceremonial sword on her right shoulder, then on her left; once he places the weapon back in its sheath, he hugs Ingrid like a bear. 

Felix watches as happy tears streak her cheeks. She looks beautiful. She’s one step away from him, yet she feels so, so far away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of their trysts, told by the point of view of a slightly mellower Felix. Age does wonders to men.

Felix glares at the letter on top of his document pile. The wax seal is orange, a novelty color used only by a certain someone with attention-seeking tendencies.

Unlike said slacker, Felix is busy—he has the armies of three-nations-made-one to arrange, he doesn’t have the luxury to patrol forests and call it ‘border defense’.

He draws the curtains and the cold light of the cloudy sky pours into his room. That half year in Garreg Mach spoiled him… Winter in Fhirdiad is sharp and unkind.

Felix opens the letter. He sees a whole sentence in larger uppercase and rolls his eyes preemptively. 

_ Hey Felix, _

_ A wise man said that the word is mightier than the sword; you might have won every sparring session we ever had, but our arguments… oh, those were and are mine to win. _

_ Hence, four simple letters about the recent Ingrid affairs: _

_ I TOLD YOU SO!! _

He deadpans at the letter. Sylvain can’t be serious.

_ Remember when we were in the dining hall and I told you—and you brushed me off, like you always used to do— _ I told you _ that Claude was trying to recruit her into the Golden Deer House? I bet you must feel really dumb right now, remembering how good ol’Sylvain warned you and you didn’t do anything, not a _ thing _ to prevent that to happen! _

Felix considers crumbling the piece of paper and telling Dimitri that they need to put someone at the Sreng border with half a brain left, but he doesn’t—he had forgotten about Claude’s masochistic attempts to get Ingrid to join him, so Sylvain has a sliver of a point.

Huh. Claude was playing the long game, it seems.

He reads the rest of the rant, stopping every other sentence to take a deep breath; once he’s done, he takes a quill and writes a curt reply on the back of the letter.

_ Do not ever use a fast messenger again for this kind of letters; Dimitri doesn’t send you all that tax money for next-day delivery of rants. _

_ I might have forgotten to mention it, but Ingrid will be back in two months. She’s going to Almyra to show Faerghus’ goodwill towards Claude’s (and Dimitri’s) cause. _

_ Before you waste precious ink: do not even ask ‘why not Duscur?’ The situation there is under control. She wants to ‘broaden her horizon and get over her stupid grudge’, let her. _

He reads his reply again and, satisfied, folds the letter in the envelope.

The orange wax of the seal personally offends him. He scrapes it from the paper and replaces it with a more appropriate green.

*

Dimitri is in Duscur when Ingrid’s battalion is supposed to leave, so it falls on the King’s right hand to oversee the deployment ceremony.

Felix hates every second of it.

He arrives early, hoping to find Ingrid alone—instead, she’s surrounded by her knights. All bundled up in fur, she holds her hand open, looking at the snow that falls on her palm with a strange expression.

“Feeling nostalgic already?” he asks, keeping his tone casual.

The snowflakes don’t melt on her gloves. “I would have never expected to overwinter in Almyra.”

“I wouldn’t call it overwinter. You’ll leave with the snow, you’ll come back to snow.”

Ingrid smiles and her nose curls when a big snowflake lands on her nose. “You’re right.”

They look at each other and Felix focuses on the voices of the knights around them, on the chill that makes his fingertips sting despite his gloves, anything to quench the need to lunge, as always, and crash their lips together. A year has passed and their deadlocks have grown scarce; when they happen, Felix feels seventeen again, ready to push aside his pride to dance in the Officer’s Academy garden with her. 

How does she feel? If Felix was half of the man he is, he would have caged her, he would have let her wither with a ring on her finger. But he isn’t, and she’s going to spend two months in Almyra, fighting pirates and playing with overgrown winged lizards.

His throat feels tight.

Ingrid breaks the deadlock. “I will miss you.”

When cornered, Felix defaults to what works. He doesn’t have a good answer to those three words. “Don’t get yourself killed, or injured.”

She smirks, insufferable and beautiful. “I could never bear to annoy you so.”

The ceremony is unnecessarily formal—he cuts it short, since it’s in the dead of a very snowy night and nobody came to wave goodbye anyways. Felix can’t blame them.

Ingrid soars on her white steed, in the white night, so used to the weather, so familiar with the city and the Blaiddyd region that the harsh conditions don’t faze her.

_ She will be fine. _

*

Felix has to _ work _to restore his territory. He is busy and doesn’t have the time to creatively insult Sylvain in their epistolary exchange, or worry about Ingrid’s bizarre adventures in the land of Almyra.

Two months pass quickly in the capital. Felix has ceremonies to attend, soldiers to train, operations to oversee. He is next to Dimitri as Annette is given the customary royal blessing as new professor at the School of Sorcery. He is next to Dimitri as Ashe is appointed Head of House Gaspard. He leaves his side when the prof—when _ Byleth _joins him and they, without fail, become useless, sappy starstruck fools.

Disgusting.

*

He doesn’t often sleep in his office, but today is an exception.

The day’s paperwork lies on his desk, neatly ordered next to a plate with the remains of his dinner. Unwilling to start doing something that actually requires focus, Felix resorts to idly staring out the window, at the frozen Royal Gardens, before feeling the weight of the book in his lap and skimming through the same passage again, and again, and again. He can use his free time however it pleases him.

_ She is late. _

The light on his desk flickers, and he replaces the candle while stealing glances at the window.

After some more reading, and waiting, huffing and puffing, neighs echo outside of the frosted window. Pegasi as white as snow—and some additions to the battalion, some white wyverns—descend to be welcomed by the King himself. Dimitri had Byleth by his side, so Felix is sure he didn’t mind the wait.

He spots a figure approach the King, then he sees his huge frame envelop hers in a bear hug. Definitely Ingrid.

Felix counts the knights—none are missing—and, satisfied, pinches the wick of the candle between his fingers and calls it a night. The sofa he installed in the corner will do.

*

Two soft knocks on the door make him raise his eyes from a rather depressing agricultural report.

“Felix?” As expected, it’s Ingrid. “It’s me.”

“It’s open.”

Ingrid slides inside his office with a teapot in one hand and several boxes in the other. Two cups are precariously hold between her arm and chest.

She is… different. Her skin is slightly darker, her hair lighter, adorned with golden trinkets. Her green eyes glimmer with emotion, just a hint of mischief in them. Felix rises slowly from his chair, drinking in the view. 

_ I missed you. _

He doesn’t know what to say. Not a lot comes to mind, he’s still too busy looking, studying the differences between Ingrid and his memory of her, liking the new touches quite a lot.

A thought slides in his mind—does her tan forms lines on her skin? He must see… later.

First, he must compose himself. “Are you playing maid? What’s with all the packages?”

“Oh.” She chuckles and places the teapot on his desk, then the cups, one by one. “I have some gifts for you.”

Felix takes in his hands a soft, fragrant pouch. The earthy scent of pine tickles his nose. “Almyran Pine Needles, huh?”

A smile grows on Ingrid’s face. “I had to double check with Sylvain what your favorite tea was.”

She got him tea. The fact leaves him stupefied for a second. He is getting soft.

Instead of jumping over the desk and kissing her like he wants to do, he quickly prepares the tea, foregoing formalities for efficiency. His whole office will smell like pine for days…

Ingrid takes the chair in front of the desk and Felix sits back on his own. She still has some packages in her hands.

“While we wait for the tea to cool off…” She hands him a small box.

_ Jewelry? _ he asks himself, panicked. The velvet inside of the box has several small compartments, and each is taken by a different whetstone. He almost sighs in relief.

“Are you guilty of something? Trying to win back my favors?”

She laughs. “No such thing! I found so many new and wonderful things you would have liked in the markets that I had to make choices.”

Felix can’t read what’s written inside of the box, but he doesn’t have time to question her, as she’s handing him her final gift. Her smile forms the cutest wrinkles around her eyes.

“This one was a bit of a pain to acquire.”

Felix recognizes a sword when he sees one—even when it’s wrapped in fabric. He takes the gift in his hands and weighs it. Solid, bulky. Reminds him of his Sword of Moralta. He unwraps it. The shape is unmistakable. He unsheaths it with wide eyes. 

“How..?”

“Fraldarius and Riegan of the Ten Elites were the closest to Nemesis, were they not? They were gifted the Twin Swords of Moralta and Begalta.”

..._ of course _ . Instead of telling him _ how _she acquired the sword, she first tells him about the silly legend related to it.

He marvels at the careful balance of such a bulky sword, admires the carvings that lighten it without compromising durability. A Sacred Weapon, a gift for him. The metal catches all the light in the room, glows with an azure glow in his grip. It fits perfectly in his hand, so used to its twin already.

He tries to reason with her. “Claude already gave Failnaught to Dimitri. Why give up another weapon of such power?”

Ingrid takes a sip of her tea to mask her wicked smile. “He didn’t give it up, he just told me where to find it, and wished me good luck.”

Curiosity has the best of him. “Where was it?”

“In the Sreng desert, near the coast. I almost paid Sylvain a visit.”

Felix places the sword back in the sheath, with the love and care that he can only use with his weapons. He takes a sip of the tea as well, to buy himself some time to think. Nice words don’t come to him easily.

In the end, he settles for a simple: “Thank you.”

That earns him a lovely smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

He takes another sip, before feeling like an utter fool. “How was Almyra?”

Felix learns about the best parts of her adventures. Ingrid talks about the pirates, about the hidden maze under the Royal Palace, about the Hero of Daphnel and Nader the Undefeated getting married in secret. Every once in a while her eyes drop and she mentions an injured ally, or a pegasus whose neck had to be snapped out of mercy.

They move on the sofa he slept on and she leans on him. Her body feels so warm, her voice so excited as she recounts her tales.

She ends up in his lap and Felix mindlessly plays with her hair, offering the occasional comment or question. Their tea sits cold on the desk, next to the paperwork.

“Claude was trying to convince me to stay.”

“Of course he did. I’ll let you know that Sylvain has no faith in you, and fully expected you to stay in Almyra.”

Ingrid frowns, unamused. “Really?”

“He begged me not to tell you.”

“He begged the wrong person.” Ingrid chuckles. Her eyes are pretty when they look at him like that. “It was a fun experience. A character building experience. I feel like I came to terms with some of my flaws.” She looks at him from below, lowers her voice. “But my place is here, as a knight of Faerghus.”

Felix bites back the words that bubble in his throat. He wouldn’t _ really _ want her to give up her dream; that wouldn't make her _ Ingrid _. If these moments are all that is allowed between them, so be it.

His voice is also a whisper. “Careful, you’re going to give me some hope.”

“Hope?” she tilts her head. “For what?”

Their first kiss in ages is as gentle as their first, but not clumsy. They have had years of practice. It quickly turns into something more raw; Ingrid raises her hands and threads her fingers in his hair, pulling him down. Felix unceremoniously grabs her breasts, covered by her clothes but inviting nonetheless, and fondles them with a fervor he hasn’t felt in months. The earthy touch of the Almyran tea on their tongues is a welcome novelty.

_ Did anybody touch you while you were there? _He doesn’t voice the question, doesn’t let its ugliness distract him.

A soft moan leaves her lips and before his mind can fully process it, he jumps up to lock the door.

“Are we not…” Ingrid rolls on the sofa to face him, and the question dies on her lips when her eyes slide down to his erection, perfectly contoured by his pants.

“Here.” He kneels next to her, covers her mouth with his in a sloppy kiss. “Now.”

Her hands move to the claps of his jacket and start unbuttoning them feverishly. He helps her and discards the jacket to the ground.

“I wish I had mastered Silence,” he tells her, tasting the skin of her neck while it’s her blouse, now, the one being undone. “I want to make you _ scream _.”

Her eyes get lost for a second in his. Once the blouse falls on the ground, Felix sits on the sofa; she tries to straddle him, but he shakes his head.

“Take your pants off first.”

She nods, quickly. “Great idea.” She discards them in a heartbeat, together with the smallclothes. She does have a tan line just below her collarbone. Felix buries his face in her breasts and marks his way upwards, trying to taste the difference in her skin, running his tongue on every scar he meets, old and new. Her taste, rare yet familiar, is peppered by her panting.

Ingrid tugs at his collar. “Why am I the only naked one?”

They’re in his office as well. _ He just remembered. _

He raises his arms and she undresses him. The room is _ cold _. He presses his goosebumps against her skin. How could he forget. He places his hands firmly on her thighs, spread open on his sides, and moans himself, feeling the muscles taut under her soft skin, marred with scars. They are what victory looks like, powerful and swift.

Her hand slides in between her legs and she starts rubbing circles, chasing her own pleasure—that’s enough to make him spill obscene sounds into their kiss.

“Felix.” She pulls his hair, firmly but gently. “Why do you still have your pants on?”

He gets rid of them at record time, gasping for air when his erection is finally released. She presses a wet finger over his mouth and he kisses it. She tastes good. He sucks on the fingers, stripping them of her delicious wetness.

“Need a hand?” he whispers, coarse.

“Need _you_.”

He doesn’t need to hear more, her demanding voice is all he needs. He angles himself better and teases her entrance, makes himself slick with her wetness. “How forward.”

He needs to take it slowly for his own pride.

Ingrid pouts, beautiful and defiant, and lowers herself onto him. This is what madness must feel like. It would take him a second to push and take her, but he doesn’t want to. The agony is bliss and her pace is perfect. She hides her face in his neck once he can feel her ass touch his thighs.

“Hurts?”

“It’s the good kind of burn.”

She presses her breasts against his chest and kisses him, again. Addicting. She adjusts her knees before changing idea. “You know, I think I’ve done enough riding for a while.”

Felix rests his neck against the sofa and gives her a good look. Her cheeks are flushed and her green eyes gleam with delight. She tilts her head, waiting.

A perfect grin. “Didn’t you want to make me scream?”

Felix rolls his hips while keeping his hands firm on her thighs. Surprise makes Ingrid cover her mouth, muffle a yelp. Again he sinks in her and makes their bodies part, again he feels her all around him, a perfect fit. Ingrid’s eyes are squeezed shut. Her breasts bounce at every movement, they mesmerize him.

Felix can’t be loud—he never really is—and that restriction makes him feel even more wanting. “Good enough?”

He can feel his release build up, the tension rise with every thrust, with every moan that Ingrid tries to cover.

_ Did you let anybody else see you like this? _Something inside him roars NO.

After a particularly deep thrust that he feels in his whole body, Felix pushes her body upwards. His vision whitens and his body jerks on his own. Ribbons of spend fall on her abdomen—out just in time.

Ingrid arches her back and the spend drips on his thighs and on the sofa. Her hand moves in between her legs and Felix lets her rest her head against his own, whispers encouragement until she bites down on his shoulder to muffle a scream.

She leaves after giving him a soft kiss on the forehead, on tiptoes. Felix can feel the bite mark burn on his skin, under his clothes.

_ How cruel _ , he notes, smelling the Almyran pine in the room. _ If he didn’t love her, he wouldn’t let her go. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, the rating of the whole thing needs to change. I hope you liked it.  
I tried to redeem a bit his relationship with Sylvain, Felix was a dick to him in part 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Felix's PoV was hard to write... I have no idea how I managed to reach almost 9k words. I trust him when he says he doesn't do romance—I made him do romantic things, but he doesn't really describe them as such.  
I originally intended for this to have a happy ending, then while editing I changed it to a more bittersweet one. They can still have their trysts, but my girl Ingrid deserves to become a knight!  
As always, this is self indulgent and filled with head-canons. I hope you liked it :)


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